


Scatter

by mildly_obsessed



Series: Puzzle Pieces [1]
Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: 1x04 Missing Scene, Connor Has Major Problems Involving Murder, Connor Has Regrets, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One of the Many 1x04 Coliver Scene Continuations, Panic Attacks, Sweet and Comforting Oliver, Yikes, but i couldn't help myself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 16:18:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2514098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mildly_obsessed/pseuds/mildly_obsessed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oliver opens the door, and there’s this sense of relief that floods over Connor as he takes in his sleepy, rumpled appearance. He can’t help the half-crazed smile that spreads across his face, the panic and terror of the night racing through his head even as he takes comfort in the fact that <em>Oliver opened his door, thank fuck, thank God…</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Scatter

**Author's Note:**

> My take on the 1x04 missing scene. The writing bug bit me rather late at night, though I hope that doesn't show too much in the story. Please enjoy!

Oliver opens the door, and there’s this sense of relief that floods over Connor as he takes in his sleepy, rumpled appearance. He can’t help the half-crazed smile that spreads across his face, the panic and terror of the night racing through his head even as he takes comfort in the fact that _Oliver opened his door, thank fuck, thank God…_

It’s not surprising that he thinks Connor’s on drugs - and what Connor wouldn’t give to pop something to make this all disappear. But that’s not happening, there’s nothing to take, there’s no way to stop any of this, to erase the night or any of the hundreds of big and little mistakes he’s been making ever since he learned how his dick worked.

His smile cracks in the same way that he’s been internally crumbling for way, way too long now, even before Oliver shut the door in his face and he’d started up thinking again about everything that was wrong with him.

And now there is this. 

On top of all the other shit, now he's a _murderer_ , _Jesus Christ I’m gonna go to fucking prison, holy shit, I screwed up, I screwed up, I-_

“-screwed up, Oliver, I screwed up so bad, so bad-”

And he can’t help the way he collapses on the floor, back to the wall and heaving these sobs and broken breaths, the world caving in around him, his vision tunneling, ears ringing with fucking “Jingle Bells” on repeat somehow, and he can’t breathe, he feels like he’s dying, _dying, fuck fuck I screwed up-_

He vaguely registers Oliver’s hand on his shoulder, but his body feels numb and it’s like it belongs to someone else. There’s this sense of doom and death coming over him, and he half welcomes it, anything to get this to stop, to make it so all of this has just been some _fucked_ nightmare and that he’ll wake up two months ago in Oliver’s bed, naked and woozy and clean and _not a murderer_.

There’s a hand in his hair, and somewhere in the midst of twisted Christmas carols and the high-pitched screeching, he registers Oliver’s smooth voice telling him to breathe with him, counting from one to five and back again, and somehow Connor finds it in himself to start counting with him. His heart feels like it’s going to collapse in his chest, his stomach is in knots and he wants to puke, purge everything, get it all out and away.

He’s still panting and maybe on the verge of passing out when he feels himself being lifted, and he half-stumbles as Oliver hauls him up and starts urging him into the apartment.

“-you’re okay, I’ve got you, just breathe, you’re going to be okay. You’re having a panic attack-”

 _Oh_.

Connor’s heard of those, knows the symptoms, and of course, that makes sense, yeah, he’s having a panic attack.

 _It’s no fucking wonder, I killed somebody tonight, I killed **Sam** , Professor Keating’s **husband** , burned the body to ashes, dumped those in the river, what the fuck-_ 

He realizes he’s still counting, but his breathing is still mostly out of control gasping, and vaguely, crazily, he wishes that he actually was dying instead of just having a meltdown on the doorstep of his ex-not-boyfriend at six o’clock in the morning.

But he’s starting to come back to himself, and when the world fades back in and the ringing stops, he feels a sense of safety wash over him as he buries his head into Oliver’s warm neck. Oliver’s kneeling in front of Connor where he sits on the couch, hands loosely holding Connor’s, whose own hands have a death grip on Oliver’s palms. But he can’t let go, because those two points of contact are the only things keeping him from flying apart all over again.

“Shh, Connor, you’re going to be fine, alright? Deep breaths, okay, come on…”

Connor nods into Oliver’s shoulder, eyes squeezed shut tight, but he’s really not going to be alright, he’s never going to be alright, he screwed up _so bad tonight, Oliver-_

“I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to do, I screwed up, I screwed up Oliver, so bad, so, _so_ bad…”

“Hey, hey, look at me,” Oliver demands softly, and even though it feels like his head has a lead weight on it, he manages to look up into Oliver’s warm, dark eyes. “Whatever it is, it’s alright. You’ll be alright." 

And Connor dissolves again, his face crumpling as tears roll down his filthy cheeks, and he sobs like he hasn’t since he was a little kid in his mom’s arms.

“I won’t be, I really, _really_ won’t be,” he gasps out, but it’s not long before exhaustion starts to creep in, and his body and mind are calming down because he just doesn’t have it in him to function anymore.

He loosens his grip on Oliver’s hands, and Oliver stands up, pulling Connor up with him. 

“Come on, you’re dead on your feet. Let’s get you cleaned up,” Oliver says, voice gentle, and Jesus, this guy is too good for Connor, and he knows it, he _knows it_.

He lets himself be lead to the bathroom, where Oliver methodically strips him and turns on the shower and the heater. The shower is warm, not hot, but it helps Connor not feel quite so frozen, both inside and out.

When Oliver steps back, the panic creeps back up again, and he stutters out a hysterical, “Don’t leave, d-don’t leave me!”

Oliver hushes him with, “I’m not going anywhere, I’m just getting out of my clothes.” Connor breathes out relief, wrapping his arms around himself as he waits for Oliver to come back.

Oliver keeps Connor under the spray for a long time, tilting his head back and letting the water really soak him. At some point, Connor checks out, lets his brain shut off and just feel the comfort of Oliver’s hands washing his body, his hair. He lets the familiar, clean, herbal scent of Oliver’s soap and shampoo and conditioner wash over his senses, and he feels calm. Well, maybe more numb and exhausted than calm, but he’ll take it.

The shower’s over before he’s ready for it to be, because he’s not ready to step out into the cold and face everything that isn't in their warm little cocoon, the parts of life that don’t involve Oliver’s hands and the water and the scent of Oliver all around him. But Oliver guides him out of the shower and into a towel, dries him off carefully, and takes him into the bedroom.

Connor looks at the bed where they’ve fucked and cuddled and laughed, and thinks that there’s absolutely nowhere else he wants to be, because the memories there are good when nothing about this night - when so little about the weeks since Oliver kicked him out - has been.

Oliver gets him into some boxers and a t-shirt, then guides him into the mountain of pillows and the fluffy comforter. Connor sinks into it, breathing in the smell of clean sheets and _Oliver, god I missed you._

“I missed you,” Connor mumbles, looking at Oliver helplessly. Oliver looks like he’s at a loss, like he’s got something to say, but he doesn’t say anything for a long time.

Oliver sighs, wipes a hand down his face.

“Have you slept at all?”

Connor shakes his head, and lets his eyes fall shut. “I’m so fucking tired,” he says, and the words are slurred like he’s back in high school and can’t hold his liquor.

He feels gentle fingers brush over his forehead, and he leans into the touch, but Oliver’s hand doesn’t linger.

“Get some sleep,” Oliver says quietly, and with the last of his awareness Connor opens his eyes and grabs his hand.

“Stay with me,” he says, and when Oliver hesitates, he tightens his grip and resorts to begging. “Please, please stay with me...”

Oliver just nods, and Connor loosens his grip. Oliver pulls his hand away and grabs his phone from the nightstand. Connor doesn’t even have the energy to wonder who Oliver is calling, but lets the sound of Oliver’s voice lull him into a shallow, exhausted sleep.

He hopes Oliver will be there in the morning - _no, it’s morning right now, what -_ and he has the hopeless wish, again, that maybe he’ll wake up and it will be two months ago before his life started getting torn down starting with a door slammed in his face. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> If I weren't so completely sure that we'd be seeing further into that night, I would think about continuing this, but I think the writers will do a much better job than I would in any case. 
> 
> Hopefully I'll venture into this fandom again at some point, maybe with a fun AU :)
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr](http://sexinwithhoechlin.tumblr.com)


End file.
